Give me soup, or give me death

One of my very earliest childhood memories is when I was around 5-years old. My dad was going to the University of Tennessee, working toward his BS in Education, and my mom was working 2nd shift at Levis. To say we were poor is an understatement. All of my mom’s paycheck went to pay bills, student loans for dad, and gas for the car. There was very little left over to buy groceries with. We were way too proud to get any type of government assistance. We lived paycheck to paycheck and lots of times we ate squirrel and rabbit that dad shot in order to survive. I know my dad was very stressed during this time because he worried about being a provider for our family. He often was depressed and in bad moods because of this.

I remember it was during the summer and I was about as hungry as a boy could get. I looked through the refrigerator and there was nothing in there. I looked through the cabinets and the only thing I saw was a lone can of Campbell’s tomato soup. I looked at that can of soup for what seems like hours, but I’m sure it wasn’t really that long. I finally worked up enough courage to take the can out of the shelf in order to eat the contents. I grabbed the old rusty can opener out of the kitchen drawer and slowly punctured the top of that can to open it. I became very scared at that point and decided against opening the soup can. I put it back on the shelf that it had come from and shut the cabinet door. I then went out into the front yard to play.

When suppertime finally rolled around that night, I was nearly famished. Just being a 5-year old kid, I had no idea about what it took to feed a family. All I knew was there was always something on the table when I was called to come and eat. On this day, I was not being called to come and eat. I remember walking into the kitchen and dad had an awful, terrible look on his face. I could tell he was madder than a hornet. I asked what was wrong. Dad looked up at me and I swear he would have made Satan himself tremble in fear. “We ain’t got nothing to eat because I had to pour out the only can of soup that we had because there was a hole in it!” I felt my heart drop. Dad could tell something was wrong. “Do you know anything about that hole in the soup?” Tears started welling up in my eyes. “I was hungry,” I said. Dad yelled, “what in the samhill did you think you were doing?” “I’m sorry, I put it back in the cabinet.” “Well it’s too late now, I didn’t know how long it had been that way and I couldn’t risk giving it to you all because it might have been spoiled.” I was still apologizing. Dad was even madder now. I took off running for the front yard. Dad caught up with me and had already yanked his belt off and began wailing away on me. I was screaming and hollering to the top of my lungs. In fact, I screamed so loud that my Grandmother, Bessie Chesney, heard me from across the field. She arrived in the yard lickety split and called for dad to stop whipping me. “Carroll, you quit whipping him! You are too mad. Let me take him out to my house for a while.” Dad finally ceased the beating and let me go. My grandmother took my hand and led me through the field to her home.

I don’t remember much that happened after that. It was never spoken of again. I do know that it made a lasting impact on me. I now can appreciate the hard work that goes into feeding a family and the struggles of being a provider.